Somewhat against my will, I was forced to admire the ingenuity behind the costume. I realised as I looked closely, it had been assembled from bits and pieces found at the Abbey. The white costume was one Aunt Hermia had worn to a midsummer masked ball. Titania, I think she was. The pattens had been long discarded. Old-fashioned and ungainly, they had been decaying in the lumber rooms for years. I remembered them from my childhood. The bits of black veiling and felt were easily explained as well—a mourning bonnet stripped of its veil, a wide hat cut into soles. The whole had been cleverly done, and all of it from here in the smaller lumber room. It would not have taken more than a quarter of an hour to effect the necessary modifications, and hey, presto, a phantom was born.
But who? And why hide the costume in Brisbane’s trunk? The latter question was easier to answer. Brisbane was clearly too large to be the ghost. If a white gown was found in his trunk, it might occasion some snickering, but no real danger to him. It was a nasty prank on the part of someone who did not wish him well, but it would not do him any lasting harm.
The greater question was who? And as I packed the costume carefully back into the trunk, I realised there was but one way to find out.
* * *
Feeling pleased with myself in spite of the meagre results of my search—Snow’s bag had been empty as well—I hurried down the stairs. I had just crossed the gallery with the intent of meeting up with Brisbane in the bachelors’ wing when I happened to glance down the gallery toward the ladies’ bedchambers. A flicker of movement caught my eye as Charlotte’s door opened and a familiar black head edged out.
Just then, I heard a footstep rising on the stair and leaned over the banister to see who approached.
“Charlotte!” I cried, rather more loudly than necessary. From the tail of my eye I saw the black head disappear and the door to her room close swiftly.
Charlotte nodded at me as she gained the gallery. She looked rosy from her outing on the boundary wall, her hands still tucked into a dainty muff of squirrel fur.
“I hope you have had a pleasant walk,” I said, my eyes lingering on a hairpin dangling just above her ear, the curl above it threatening to escape.
She did not flush, but I noticed her lips were pinkly moist and a little swollen. She licked them before she replied.
“Very pleasant, thank you.”
I dared not let my gaze slide past her shoulder for fear she would turn. I detained her for a moment, asking inane questions about her comfort—Had she enough to eat at luncheon? Was her bedchamber warm enough?—keeping my eyes firmly fixed on her face. She replied that she was quite comfortable, and we exchanged pleasantries.
A few minutes’ worth of imbecilic conversation was all the situation required, I decided, and I was just about to take my leave of her when she laid a hand on my sleeve. Her expression, sweetly placid before, had taken on an anxious cast. Her eyes darted about, as if she feared to speak freely.
“My lady, I wonder…” She broke off, worrying her lip with her tiny, pearly teeth.
“Yes?” I prodded. The great irony of Charlotte King’s character was that when one craved silence, she chattered like a monkey, but when one wished her to speak, she was silent as an oyster. I gave her an encouraging smile, determined to pry her open.
She twisted her hands together. “I feel a vile creature for even suggesting such a thing, but I did wonder—the death of the curate, the disappearance of Lady Dorcas, the theft of the Grey Pearls—these terrible events might possibly be connected.”
I resisted the urge to pinch her for pointing out the obvious. It was unfair to expect her to handle these developments with any sort of equanimity. Those of us born into the March family enjoyed a long and illustrious heritage of drama and disaster. I endeavoured to explain this to Charlotte.
“My dear, of course they are connected. They all happened here, in our family home. But you must realise such things have been happening to us for more than three hundred years, and for four centuries before that prior to our taking up residence in the Abbey. One has only to read a history of the March family to see that we are an unprincipled, unpredictable lot. There have been beheadings and elopements, abductions and accidents. We are rather too accustomed to such things, I suppose.”
Charlotte shook her head, the loosened lock of silky primrose-yellow hair falling free over her shoulder. “You misunderstand, my lady. I do not refer to the past history of the March family. I speak only of the present.” She leaned closer, and I smelled fennel seed on her breath. “I speak of your present connections.”
I held my breath for the space of a heartbeat. Surely she could not mean Brisbane?
“The Gypsies,” she whispered, her voice urgent.
I laughed. It was impolite, but I could not stop myself. She was so earnest, so determined to help.
“My dear, it is not possible.”
She tightened her grip on my sleeve. “Are you quite certain? Think on it, my lady. Mr. Snow was adamant in his condemnation of them. He proposed taking their children away and putting them into orphanages. They might well have heard of his views and took steps to ensure he could not see them to fruition.”
“Mr. Snow revisited those thoughts after we called upon their camp,” I protested.
She shook her head, dropping her lashes to fan her cheeks. It was a lovely, sorrowful expression and I rather thought Plum ought to paint her thus. He could title itBeauty Grieves.
“He did not change his mind, not truly,” she told me. “If you thought so, it was because he believed it prudent to be polite to his hosts. He admitted as much last evening before dinner. We spoke of it, just before we withdrew to the dining room.”
I said nothing, and she pressed her advantage. “And what of the pearls? Surely so great a treasure would be an impossible temptation to those already accustomed to thieving?”
“And Lady Dorcas?” I asked, not bothering to blunt the edge to my voice. “Even if you could persuade me the Gypsies had reason to slay Mr. Snow and to purloin my jewels, you cannot possibly conceive any reason they would trouble themselves tosteala portly old woman.”
Charlotte shrugged. “They would if she had seen what she ought not. And who else would be so cunning as to send a message that the lady is well? Lord March would not question such tidings from them. And all the while she may be among them, in distress, in need of our aid, never realisingit will not come.”